


A Coffee, Please

by salesman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, POV Solas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salesman/pseuds/salesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas doesn't realize he's reading his work aloud until a stranger in a coffee shop compliments him on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Coffee, Please

The coffee shop is popular with the locals, but this is the first time Solas has ever stepped foot inside it. He only recently moved to the area, and what better way to become acquainted with Haven than trying out the neighborhood cafe?

He orders a simple coffee, taking a seat by the window and pulling out his notebook and pen. He has been working on this particular passage for some time now, but still something about it seems off. He reads the sentences over and over, trying to determine the problem, until at last he finds that perfect balance:

_“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.”_

“Nice poem,” a voice calls, stirring Solas from his reading.

“Oh, pardon me... I did not realize anyone could hear me.” He turns to find a woman watching him, sitting backwards on a chair with her chin resting atop it.  

He first notices the tattoos which adorn her face, flowering across her cheekbones in thin, dark lines. Vallaslin, he supposes, although he doubts she truly believes in its meaning. Memories of his encounters with Dalish gangs involuntarily spring to Solas’ mind; hostile youth mocking him as a flat ear and threatening him with violence. They call themselves clans, but Solas only sees it as an excuse for them to ban together without interference from the government. None of them truly care for the preservation of Elvhen culture.

“That's okay,” the woman shrugs, returning him back to the present. “It was a nice poem. Had a great flow.”

This woman seems friendly enough, though, and Solas pushes away his initial hesitation to politely engage with her. “Actually, it is a line from a script,” he corrects. “I am a playwright.”

“What? Are you serious?” she asks, raising a skeptical brow and lifting her chin from the chair curiously.

“Yes. Quite.”

“Oh,” she replies, taken aback. She gives him a strange look, one of confusion and disbelief which scrunches her entire face together. “I've never met a playwright before. I mean, I didn't even know people still did that for a living.”

Perhaps he is wrong about this woman—she _is_ just like the rest of them. Another Dalish who has lost all interest in the oldest forms of art. He feels insulted by her words, but as he opens his mouth to inform her on how large and lucrative a profession of writing for the theatre could be and _is_ , she interrupts him.

“But I think that's really cool!” she explains, holding her hands up defensively and obviously noticing his indignation. “And that line or whatever sounds brilliant.”

“Well... Thank you,” he replies. He feels surprised by this new development and slightly ashamed by how quickly he had become offended.

“I thought you were just one of the regulars here, writing poems or spoken word or something. _So_ many poets come to this cafe...” She looks around the coffee shop, eyeing the other customers. “Are you going to read that for the open mic?”

“Open mic?” Solas asks, completely unaware of what she is referring to.

She laughs, shaking her head and slapping her palm against her forehead. “Creators, I am so off today. I'm pinning all the wrong stereotypes on you!” she chuckles. “I totally thought you were some guy who always comes to this cafe and was practicing what you would read for the open mic tonight.”

Solas frowns, feeling that twinge of insult again. “This is the first time I have ever been here,” he replies, wishing she would leave him alone so that he could continue working.

But he does wonder one thing... He ventures to ask the woman a question. “Do writers often read their plays aloud during this open mic?”

She shrugs, one corner of her mouth turning upwards in a half-smile. “People read all sorts of stuff. Poems, short stories, raps... It wouldn't surprise me if an excerpt from a play was read.”

Solas nods. The open mic sounded somewhat intriguing. Perhaps he could find inspiration from its performers. “Do you frequent this cafe?” he asks, curiosity now getting the better of him. “You seem to know quite a bit about it.”

She shakes her head, laughing all the while. “Nope, something worse I'm afraid—I actually _work_ here.”

Solas knits his eyebrows together in confusion. “Then would you not recognize me as a new patron as opposed to a regular?”

She laughs again. “Probably, if I wasn't so terrible with faces. It's pretty bad, too. Regulars come in here all the time saying ‘The usual, please,’ and I always have to awkwardly ask what that is.”

“Ah... I see,” Solas says. “I imagine it may get confusing with so many customers. This establishment seems to attract several...” He trails off, trying to find the words to describe it.

“Hipsters?” she finishes. “Yeah, only hipsters come here. Except you, I guess.”

“You don’t consider me a hipster?” Solas asks curiously.

She gives him a sly smile. “No... Something about you tells me you aren't.” She waves her hands around, as if reading his aura. “You feel like the real deal.”

“Real deal?”

“Not a poser at all; completely authentic,” she explains with a wink.

“Oh,” Solas replies, unsure of how else to respond. Was this woman flirting with him?

“Well, that's the end of my break,” she says, standing up. “You should stay for the open mic. I'm reading later.” And she flashes Solas a brilliant smile.

Well. There would be no harm in staying.

He continues his writing, although often finds his eyes wandering to the barista behind the counter, watching as she expertly spins around making drinks in the small space.

The open mic begins, and several of these “hipsters” walk up to the podium to recite their work. He watches as they pull out crumpled pieces of paper and read them with dramatic hand gestures. Occasionally, their words give Solas an idea, and he scribbles it down in his notebook.

Eventually, the barista walks to the small stage and sits on the stool, holding nothing but the microphone in her tattooed hand.

_“Bald man. Likes to write. He speaks in a rhythm lost to time.”_

Solas stiffens instantly by the first words she speaks. Are they about him? They couldn’t possibly be; she had only met him this evening! He swallows, suddenly feeling very warm in his woolen jumper, although the gooseflesh prickling his neck would say otherwise.

_“I wonder why he chose here,_ ” she continues. _“I wonder why he sits in my favorite seat, and if he goes home to someone else. Maybe that's why he comes here.”_

Solas appreciates the way words roll off her tongue, the clarity of each syllable in her Free Marcher accent. Her words are simple, yet somehow enthralling, and he feels captured by the way she describes this man... this man who could be him.

_“He likes the strangers. He likes the comfort of knowing no one knows his knowledge. Only he knows who he is. Only he knows what he writes. It is his, and it is sacred._ _I hope he comes here again.”_

She smiles and sets the mic down, returning to her previous place behind the counter. Solas doesn't know how to react. _Was_ that poem about him?

At the end of the open mic, he approaches the woman. “Ah—” he starts.

“Ellana,” she smiles. “My name is Ellana.”

Her smile surprises Solas in the way it affects him. He admires how her vallaslin bends around her cheeks as her lips spread across them. There is a shimmer in her eyes—a feature all elves have, yet hers seem somewhat brighter, but perhaps it is the lighting.

And her entire body seems to respond to the expression, leaning across the counter in open and genuine friendliness. She’s shifting slightly, rocking her body and tilting her head to a rhythm that Solas is unaware of.

He returns a smile, feeling exceptionally shy. He considers asking about the poem, or even more about herself, but reluctance changes his mind. “Are you still taking orders?” he asks instead.

“You bet,” she replies, still holding that smile. “And this one's on me.” She winks at him again.

Solas swallows, and his face suddenly grows very warm. “A coffee then, please.”

“Can I get a name?” she asks, her grin turning playful as she raises both her brows. She lifts a paper cup and marker in her hands, watching him expectantly.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he answers, embarrassment overcoming him as he realizes he had not yet introduced himself. “I am Solas.”

“ _Solas_ ,” she slowly repeats, writing his name on the paper cup. She looks up at him again. “I'll be sure to remember that.”

And for some strange reason, he really hopes she does.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having writer's block recently, so I wrote this to just get some words out... aaaand practice writing in present tense and third person! Nothin' fancy, just a blooby modern AU oneshot.


End file.
